


What a Shame

by Twice_before_Friday



Series: Bad Things Happen (again and again and again) [2]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Stabbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:28:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24148183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twice_before_Friday/pseuds/Twice_before_Friday
Summary: For the Bad Things Happen prompt: StabbedAnd like the predictable and emotional simpleton that Martin has always expected him to be, Gil leans in right above Martin, grabbing hold of both of his shoulders and giving him a light shake to try to snap him out of his semi-lucid state. Martin has a spike of rage that such a hopeless imbecile is the reason he's spent the last 20 years in a cell, rather than with his family where he belongs. Frankly, Martin thinks, he'll be doing the NYPD a favour by removing this man from its ranks.
Series: Bad Things Happen (again and again and again) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1741687
Comments: 12
Kudos: 29





	What a Shame

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place during alone time when Gil goes to visit Martin for information on where John Watkins may have taken Malcolm.
> 
> It doesn't go well.
> 
> *
> 
> Thanks again to KateSamantha for encouraging me and providing very useful information on prison shivs!

"Hey, don't be a stranger, okay?" Martin slurs as the guards lower him to the bed, gloriously uncuffed. He purposely distorts the words to appear addled from the benzodiazepines that were administered earlier. He rolls his eyes at the idiocy of the rabble he's surrounded by, thinking that the dose they provided would still have such a concentrated effect on him this long after the initial injection.

Gil rushes down the hall, just as Martin expected he would, and Martin can hear the panic in the man's voice as he calls out, "Mr. David, wait!" The Lieutenant barges into the room, still begging for Martin's help. "The cabin was a dead end." 

"They didn't find him?" Martin mumbles, worried that, in his excitement, he may be overplaying the doped-up patient card.

"No. If there's anything else you're—" Gil pauses as Martin let's his eyes flutter shut and allows his head to lull to the side. "Martin? Hey. Hey, Martin? I need you to focus. Where would he be?"

And like the predictable and emotional simpleton that Martin has always expected him to be, Gil leans in right above Martin, grabbing hold of both of his shoulders and giving him a light shake to try to snap him out of his semi-lucid state. Martin has a spike of rage that such a hopeless imbecile is the reason he's spent the last 20 years in a cell, rather than with his family where he belongs. Frankly, Martin thinks, he'll be doing the NYPD a favour by removing this man from its ranks.

"I know where Watkins took my boy," Martin murmurs, barely above a whisper, and Gil leans in even closer to better hear what Martin is saying.

"Where?" 

"Oh, no," Martin rolls his head towards Gil, who is now just inches away, the bitter smell of coffee on his breath masking the scent of Jessica's perfume on his clothes. 

With the thought of Jessica draping herself over this man, Martin drops the pretense and let's the rage shine through, years of anger and jealousy laid out in a withering gaze. 

Martin's been fantasizing about killing this fucker for years, and now, not only does he finally get the chance, but Gil has earned himself an especially painful death for having led Malcolm down a path that's most assuredly led to his demise.

When they were still back in his cell, while Omar and Mr. David were busy sorting out the reporting involved in a prisoner-related medical emergency that required an injection of psychoactive pharmaceuticals, and while Gil was busy with his fool's errand on the phone with his team, Martin had reached beneath his bed frame to grab what he considered to be his backup plan.

He despised the idea of calling it a shiv. It was so much more elegant than that. There was nothing left of its original form, all traces of its functional purpose as toothbrush were long gone, whittled away with a single-minded intensity borne of years of confinement. Even the strip of cloth he'd used as a handle had been thoughtfully wound around the base, the aesthetic just as important to Martin as the functionality. He used a discarded rubber glove, carefully torn into strips, as a binding for the cloth, and took advantage of his detailed knowledge of ropes and knots to tie it up in a pattern that not only pleased the eye, but that would hold tightly through the years, even as the rubber began to age and decay.

And so, as Gil leans over him, blinding panic for Malcolm's safety creasing his features and clouding his judgement, Martin subtly reaches into the waistband of his pants and grabs hold of his work of art. A small part of Martin is quite pleased that his labour of love will finally be used to fulfill its destiny, but a much larger part is downright euphoric that it's _this man_ whose blood will be christening its use. 

Detective — now Lieutenant — Gil Arroyo, who came into his home that fateful evening and tore his family apart. Who substituted himself in Martin's absence as a cheap imitation of a father to _his boy_ for the last two decades. Who was trying, if Martin's suspicions were correct, to take his place in Jessica's bed as well.

"My boy," Martin seethes, jaw clenched so tightly he can hear the grind of his teeth, "is dead because of you."

It's all the warning he's willing to give. Just enough to see the fear creep into the Lieutenant's eyes as he realizes his mistake, but not enough for him to move back from the dangerous position he's found himself in. 

Martin grips the beautifully wrapped handle of his weapon, relishing the way it nestles in his hand so perfectly, and jabs it upwards into Gil's abdomen with all the strength he can muster. He lets himself hold it there for a fraction of a second, his thumb and forefinger pressed snug against Gil's sweater as the shiv sinks as deeply as it can, stopped only by the bulk of Martin's fist. He lets the warm, sticky blood coat his hand as it starts to flow in rivulets, feeling the man's pulse against his hand even through the thick wool of his sweater, all while watching the dawning realization give way to excruciating pain in Gil's eyes. 

It's exquisite.

The reality is infinitely better than any fantasy he's allowed himself.

As soon as Gil sucks in a shaky breath, undoubtedly preparing himself to scream (they always scream) for help, Martin acts fast. He yanks the weapon back, a bathwater-warm gush of blood flowing down onto his own torso, and then plunges it quickly back up into the man, closer to the center of his body this time. With no time to wait and savour it — he can tell the guards have already noticed something is wrong — he slides the shiv out and brutally thrusts it back up twice more.

It's all he can manage before the guards are on him, pulling Gil's limp form off of him and wrestling the weapon from his hands with, frankly, more force than Martin thinks is strictly necessary.

The guards flip him over on the bed, leaving his legs dangling off the side and his torso pressed harshly against the mattress as they cuff his hands behind his back. Even still, if he cranes his neck just a little, he can see Gil Arroyo on the floor of the tiny cell, struggling to keep his eyes open as another guard tries to stem the bleeding by applying pressure, but there's so much blood drenching the man that Martin is sure the guard doesn't realize he's not tending to all of the wounds.

Martin keeps his eyes glued to Gil as long as he can, watching as the guards grab hold of Gil's coat at the shoulders and drag his body into the hallway, leaving behind a slick trail of lustrous blood on the floor. He smiles to himself as he sees Gil's eyes finally flutter closed and his body go lax, just as Mr. David, with a look of horror on his face, pulls the door shut behind him, locking Martin — bloodsoaked and deliriously happy — in the tiny cell.

He shuffles on his knees over to the door, collapsing onto the floor as he listens to the bustle outside of his room as facility medics are called and, eventually, a team of paramedics shows up as well.

Listening as they call out vital statistics and assess their patient, Dr. Martin Whitly muses that it doesn't sound promising for the good detective.

 _What a shame_ he thinks, closing his eyes with a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Kate has assured me that people are going to want to know what happened after this. She had the world's best explanation, so I'm just going to add a note here about "Gil surviving and sharing a hospital room with Malcolm and they argue about jello flavors and who the team is really there to visit."
> 
> Because honestly, that's perfect.


End file.
